


What You Want Me To Be

by quirkysubject



Series: Quirky's Anon Prompt Challenge [3]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Backstage, Dirty Talk, Don't Like Don't Read, F/M, First Time, Late 70s/early 80s setting, Mirror Sex, One Night Stand, One Night Stands, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Prompt Fill, Queen on Tour, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Sleazy Sex, Slut Shaming (internalised), this is filth alright?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25531786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/pseuds/quirkysubject
Summary: You just followed a total stranger into some back room. No one knows where you are. You agreed to meet a man you’ve been crushing on since you were a teenager andnot for conversation, if you get my drift.
Relationships: Roger Taylor (Queen)/Original Female Character(s), Roger Taylor (Queen)/Reader, Roger Taylor (Queen)/You
Series: Quirky's Anon Prompt Challenge [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1841833
Comments: 16
Kudos: 42





	What You Want Me To Be

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third fill for [Quirky's Prompt Challenge](https://quirkysubject.tumblr.com/post/624072927120375808/anon-fic-requests-open) on tumblr! 
> 
> The prompt was:  
>  _roger x f!reader. roger is frustrated after a bad show…. you let him use you to work it off.... it's rough and dirty but you like it sooo much… ahdkfkjdfkjb idk just own my ass_
> 
> (Quick warning: Everything's consensual, but there is a clear and obvious power imbalance at play.)

“Play one more! Play one more!”

You’re chanting along with the crowd, hands clapping and excitement surging through you. You’re exhausted and covered in sweat and your feet are killing you after an almost two-hour show (plus the support band, plus the hours of waiting outside to get this spot right here at the front), but you never want this to end. And they haven’t played “We Are The Champions Yet”, so they must come back to the stage once more! And if you’re lucky, they’ll all come to the front of the stage, so you’ll get another close look at him, the one who’s frustratingly hidden behind his kit most of the time. Maybe he’ll even take his shirt off, you know he does that sometimes. Maybe you’ll even catch his eye again - you’d swear his gaze lingered on you for a moment just before they launched into ‘39...

“Oi! You there!” It takes a moment until you realise that the tall, balding man with the long hair who has appeared in the gap between the first row and the stage wants your attention.

“What me?” It’s difficult to make yourself heard over the din of the crowd. The guy is wearing a crew badge and doesn’t look too happy about the state of things. Have you been misbehaving? Are you going to be called out by security? But you didn’t do anything! Some of the guys around you tried to get around security and that one drunk girl a few rows behind threw some panties onto the stage and flashed her tits, but you haven't done anything like that!

“Yeah.” He exchanges a few words with the security guy who’s been yelling at people to stay back all night and waves at you to come forward. He even helps you climb over the low barrier in front of the first row. Your stomach is clenching with worry, but you _know_ you haven't done anything wrong. Maybe they're pulling people out for an autograph session or something like that? Or a photoshoot?

The crew guy leads you aside a couple of steps, until you’re out of earshot of the crowd. You belatedly you realise that you have no idea whether you’ll be let back to your seat. What if you're going to miss the encore.

But then he flashes you a grin and leans in. “Wanna meet the band?”

“What?” You can’t believe you heard right.

The guy rolls his eyes. “Well, can’t speak for all of them, but the Cornish boy wonder wants to meet you.”

Oh god. This can’t be happening. This is exactly what girls like you daydream about happening, but it never actually does. Right? “Roger?” Your voice is barely more than a squeak.

“Oh yeah, right, _that’s_ his name…” The guy pretends like he’s just remembered. “So what is it?”

You just gape at him. This must be a joke, a prank the crew likes to play on girls like you.

“Look, I really don’t have all night and if you don’t want to, I’m sure there’s lots of other-”

“Yes! Yes, of course I do!” This is probably just a prank (it _must_ be a prank!) and you’re going to be laughed at. But maybe, just maybe, it isn’t and then…

“Great. Now listen.” He leans in a bit closer. “What are you up for?”

“...up for,” you repeat stupidly.

“Just so we’re on the same page: He’s not in the best of moods and I don’t think he wants you for your conversation, if you get my drift.” He gives you a long look, eyebrows raised.

Your heart, which has been in your throat this whole time, is beating so hard your whole chest vibrates with it. “You mean…”

The guy shrugs and crosses his arms in front of his chest. “So. Are you up for that.”

“Yes”, you hear yourself say and you feel giddy with your own daring. You’re not that kind of girl, usually. But you’ve also been thinking about this every single night, ever since you first saw a picture of him. Granted, those fantasies also featured romantic dinners and hand-holding under the starry night sky first, but…

He gives you a long look. “How old are you”, he asks.

Holy shit, he actually means it. This is real! “Old enough”, you say, trying to sound way cooler than you feel.

“Got some ID?”

You dig your driver’s license out of the tiny handbag you’ve got slung over your shoulder.

He inspects it for a moment, then hands it back and nods. “Right. Come on then. Name’s Crystal, by the way.”

Your legs are trembling as you follow him to the backstage area. He’s walking fast and you as have trouble keeping up on the high heels you’re not used to wearing. As you pass through narrow corridors, you can hear the roar of the crowd and the “dum dum dah” of the beginning of We Will Rock You. The band is back on stage. _Roger_ is back on stage, sitting behind his drum kit right this second. Is he thinking about meeting you already? Or is he completely engrossed in playing?

You pass a couple of grubby looking roadies and they whistle at you as you pass them by. Icy fear runs down your spine. What if this is all a trick? What if what’s awaiting you is not a date with a rock star, but a backroom full of randy crew guys?

Crystal throws you a look over his shoulder. “Don’t mind them”, he says, and for some reason you trust him. Maybe it's just his British accent (and how stupid is that?). Maybe it's that he doesn't try to be particularly nice to you.

You follow him through a couple of doors into a large room that looks a lot nicer than what you’ve seen so far. A couple of sofas are standing in the middle of it. One wall is lined with mirrors and has tables and chairs in front of it. It must be a dressing room, but it looks unused. There are no clothes or personal belongings or make-up kits lying about.

“Want a drink,” Crystal asks.

“Vodka Tonic,” you say and try to ignore the fact you only said that because you read somewhere that it's Roger’s favourite drink.

Crystal turns towards a table that has been pushed against the opposite wall and waves at the bottles and glasses on it. “Help yourself”, he says with a look at his watch. “Gotta run. It might be a while, so just get comfortable. No one should bother you here.”

And then you’re alone. Alone in that big, empty room.

You mix yourself a drink - Vodka Lemon, you don’t really like the bitterness of tonic - and wander over to one the dressing tables. That’s when you realise you look completely horrible.

You took such care with your hair and make-up before you came here, but by now the heat in the arena and all that jumping around and singling along have dissolved all your hard work. Your hair is hanging down sad and lanky, your lipstick has disappeared, and the dark mascara left ugly smudges around your eyes. The straps of the short dress that looked so cute when you put it on this afternoon have a habit of sliding off your shoulders, so you’re constantly busy readjusting it.

You reach for your bag, but all you’ve got in there is some lip gloss and powder - it’s just not big enough for anything else. You do what you can to make yourself presentable but dammit. If only you’d known that…

You sit down heavily in a chair as the realisation of what you’re doing hits you. You just followed a total stranger into some back room. No one knows where you are. You agreed to meet a man you’ve been crushing on since you were a teenager and _not for conversation, if you get my drift._

What would your friends think if they knew? They’d call you a slut for going backstage for a bit of nookie with someone you’ve never met before. (And would they be wrong?) But you feel like you know him, having pored over the interviews you collected, stared at the posters on your wall for so long.

 _He’s not in a good mood._ But he wouldn’t do anything bad, would he?

You empty your drink. None of your friends are here. They all laughed at you for liking this weird British band with its weird-looking singer and weirder outfits. What do they know? At least you’re living your life instead of sitting at home moping with some boring boyfriend. You really don’t have to apologize for-

“...all bullshit if they can’t even get me a bloody monitor…”

“Yeah, I know I already talked to-”

“...that doesn’t fucking die half-way through the set! What the fuck, Chris?”

The shouted words are the only warning you get before the door is thrown open.

You jump up from the chair, then immediately wish you hadn’t, because you must have looked like a startled deer. You’re also clutching your purse like an idiot and the skirt of your dress is rucked up and _that’s Roger Taylor standing in the doorway, oh God!_

He stops shouting when he sees you. His eyes, which are just as big and blue as they look on the photos, travel once down and then back up your body. You want to die of embarrassment but you also want him to keep looking at you.

“Rog, I’m going to-”

“Later,” Roger says to Crystal, without taking his eyes off you.

The roadie falls silent and steps out of the room. When the door falls closed behind him, it’s only you and Roger.

His hair is sticking up in all directions. His white shirt is hanging open and loose from his shoulders and his breath is coming fast. A towel is slung around his neck. He must have come here right from the stage, the part of your brain that isn’t hysterically screaming ‘it’s him oh my god it’s really him!’ over and over again notes.

He walks over to the drinks table and pours himself a whiskey. You use that moment of distraction to get rid of the purse and pick up your own drink, leaning your hip against the backrest of the chair in what you hope is a relaxed posture.

He takes a sip of his whiskey, studying you. “What’s your name”, he asks.

You tell him and he nods, a bit absentmindedly. There’s no trace of that charming smile on his face. Is he disappointed with you? Maybe he didn’t even mean you and Crystal picked the wrong girl! Yes, that must be it. There were so many girls in the crowd, each of them prettier than you, taller or thinner or with better hair and poutier lips…

But he’s coming closer now. You try to keep your breathing under control, to appear cool and confident and not like an absolute mess. Oh god, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?

“You alright with this”, he asks and you nod, although you only have a vague idea of what ‘this’ actually is. You really hope there’s no hidden catch to all of it.

You take another sip of your drink, only to find the glass empty. You put it on the dressing table, pretending like you’re not feeling like the biggest klutz ever. When you look back up at him, there’s the tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. And he’s close now, so close you can see the drops of sweat that have collected on his forehead, his chest. He presses the whiskey glass into your hand and you lift it to your mouth. You don’t dare to turn it around to put your lips where his have just been.

It tastes horribly sharp, but you manage not to grimace as you swallow the liquid down. He’s watching you, like it’s a test. He really is just as pretty as he looks on the photos, with long lashes and a small mouth that you want to feel on your skin so badly. You have to remind yourself, that this is real, that this is actually happening.

He takes the glass out of your unresisting hand and leans in to put it on the dressing table behind you. He leaning so close you can smell him - the hair spray and dry ice clinging to his hair, a faint whiff of cologne, fresh sweat from a night of drumming. It’s such a heady, intoxicating mix that you feel dizzy with the need to surround yourself with it. You didn’t have much to drink, but you feel unable to think a single sensible thought.

Oh god, what have you gotten yourself into?

He leans in so that his lips brush your ear and it’s only thanks to the chair digging into your back that you manage to stay on your feet.

“Are you excited about this?”

This time, you can hear the grin in his voice. You can only nod, throat parched and closed up. How can this be happening?

“Yeah, I can tell.” He steps even closer, so your feet are in between his, and when he puts his hands on your waist you can’t keep the hitch out of your breath.

It’s so embarrassing, you should be able to keep it together, he’s barely touching you after all, dammit, but it’s just so… It’s all you’ve been dreaming about for so long and now he’s here, he’s actually here with you, _touching_ you. It’s all you’ve ever wanted, and now that you have it you want it so much, you’ll do anything to get it.

“Is that so”, he asks and pulls back enough that he can look at you.

It’s only then you realise you’ve been babbling out loud and you wish you’d just implode on the spot. The heat is shooting into your cheeks and you’re burning up with embarrassment. Why can’t you just keep your mouth shut, why do you have to make a fool of yourself all the time? But his eyes are locked onto yours, demanding an answer. “Yes”, you whisper.

“Show me”, he says and the teasing smile is gone, his voice gruff now. “Show me what you’ll do.”

You’ll tell yourself later that he pushed you down, that you didn’t go to your knees at the merest suggestion. That you’re not that easy.

And it’ll be a lie.

You try not to think about what you are doing, what you must look like. You just reach up, praying that he doesn’t notice how badly your fingers are shaking, and peel his tight black pants open.

You run your thumb over the bulge in his dark boxer briefs, still grappling with the fact that this is actually happening to you.

But he doesn’t give you much time to think. His foot his tapping restlessly on the floor and after a couple of seconds, he reaches down to shove his underwear out of the way and suddenly his half-hard cock is bobbing just an inch from your face. You know that this is it. You can get up and walk out, or you can go all in.

You taste salty sweat on his skin, a trace of shower gel, but as you suck him in deeper, there’s something that’s uniquely him and it’s this that you’re after. This, and the low moan he gives as you suck him down as much as you can (which isn’t very - you haven’t done this that much and you worry a bit that it’s not up to snuff, doesn't compare to what he’s used to - but you do your best). Fingers slide down the side of your face and you think he’s going to grab you and hold you down, but they keep going until he’s past your neck and he can slide the straps of your dress off your shoulders.

You can feel the neckline slide down until it almost slips off your breasts. Your breath is coming in short, deep gasps and you know that your chest must be heaving.

“Fuck, that’s hot”, he murmurs with that _voice_ and you realise your lucky you’re on your knees already.

You double your efforts, thrilled by the praise, by the knowledge that - whatever might happen after this - right now, it’s _you_ he wants. You can feel the wetness soaking through your panties although he’s barely even touched you.

“You have no idea how much I just want to come all over your tits right now.”

You pull off just long enough to whisper “do it” and “please” against the tip of his cock because if he wants it, it’s what you want too.

He laughs at that, a bit breathless, and then you’re hauled up by your armpits and he’s kissing you, deep and messy, pressing your back into the chair and grinding his cock against you so hard the chair scrapes noisily over the floor. He tastes of the whiskey and cigarettes and _him_ and you wrap one leg around his hip to pull him in closer, to get him to where you want to feel him so badly.

“You’re not getting away so easy,” he murmurs against your mouth, sharp teeth digging into your lower lip.

One kick with his foot and the chair crashes to the floor. You’d have followed if it hadn’t been for his arm around your waist. The next thing you know, you’re sitting on the dressing table, your dress rucked up so high the black lace panties you put on just in case are peeking out. You thought about not bothering at all - after all you were going to the concert to enjoy the music, not to hook up with random people - but now that you see the appreciative look in his eyes, you say a little prayer of thanks that you did.

He’s kissing you again while his hands glide up your thighs, pushing the skirt of your dress up even higher. Then one hand slides between your legs, right under your panties and stroking between your folds. You push your head back against the mirror as you spread your legs wider for him. He must feel how wet you are, how much everything about this turns you on. His slippery fingers circle your clit, just enough to make the first tingly shivers flash through your body.

Suddenly, his fingers are gone and you moan your complaint, but when you blink your eyes open, any words you had die on your tongue. He’s standing above you, cock jutting out hard between his legs and he is rolling on a condom with practised ease.

You swallow hard. You knew that’s what it would come down to, but… holy fuck, you’re about to get railed by Roger fucking Taylor and… and… And that’s more than you can deal with but of course, that only makes it better. He looks hypnotic, focused and completely in control. You reach down to slide your panties off, to do something to help, but he swats your hands away. Then he just pulls aside the crotch of your panties and presses the head of his dick right against your pussy, just enough that you can feel him.

“Oh fuck”, you hiss and screw your eyes shut. Your heart is trying to thump right out of your body, the blood rushing in your ears.

“Is that what you want”, he asks and you nod, silently pleading with him to just get on with it.

One hand travels over your body, squeezing your tits, pinching a nipple, tilting back your head. He must be enjoying the view, you think distantly, having you spread out before him like that. You feel like you’re tied to a rack that is stretching you tighter and tighter with each passing second. “Please”, you whisper, “Please, Roger, I…”

Whatever you were going to say, you’re cut off when he slides into you with one sharp thrust, filling you up. Your shocked moan is obscenely loud in your own ears, but somehow even that only turns you on more.

His hands come up to your waist, holding you there while he pushes into you. “Like that?”

“Just like that”, you whisper in reply and gasp when he does it a little harder.

“Tell me”, he says and leans down to lick and bite at your neck. “Like you did before.”

Like did bef… oh. You shake your head, bury your face in his hair. God, he smells so good. His cock is hitting that spot of pleasure-almost-pain deep inside you and his belly rubbing against your clit every time he pushes in.

He bites down again, so hard that you dig your fingers into his shoulder. “Come on”, he rasps and his stubble his harsh against your skin. “You’ve been thinking about this?”

This time when you nod, he pulls out completely.

Fuck. You screwed it up. He wanted you to talk sexy and you didn’t because you couldn’t bring yourself to do it and now he's done with you and-

“Turn around.”

He’s standing in front of you, still mostly dressed, breath coming fast, and his eyes are dark as he stares down at you. The sight sends a shiver of desire all through your body.

You slide off the table and turn your back to him and then, because there’s no other way this can go, you bend down to put your hands on the table. Your skin is tingling as if filled with static as you wait for him to touch you.

This time, your panties come off, and this time he doesn’t bother teasing you. His cock is thrusting into you, so much deeper at the changed angle and it’s so intense you forget how to breathe for a second. You whine and moan, not caring who might be overhearing you outside. It’s not romantic at all, it’s rough and hard and you love it. However much you want to to tell yourself that you’re not like that, you are, for him, and as you slide down onto your elbows, face mashed into the table, you give yourself to that.

A hand slides into your hair, urging you up. The edge of the table is digging painfully into your thigh, but all that matters now is that Roger keeps fucking you, so you curl your back and let him bend you as he pleases.

“Open your eyes”, he grunts.

When you do, the sight that greets you in the mirror is one that you’ll never forget in your life. Your dress has slipped down completely, leaving your tits bouncing with every thrust. Your hair is hanging sweaty and messy around your face, your make-up a mess and your lips are swollen from how hard you’ve been biting down on them. You look exactly like a very naughty girl who is getting fucked to within an inch of her life and loving every second. And behind you…

You look down, letting your head hang between your shoulders because it’s too much, but immediately his hand is on your jaw, dragging your head back up. “No”, he gasps. “Don’t look away.”

“Oh God”, you pant, “Oh God, Rog, I can’t, I…”

His fingers don’t leave your face and you don’t dare to close your eyes. His gaze is fixed on your face and you know what he’s seeing, because you’re seeing it too. But it doesn’t matter right now, because he is looking at _you_ , and only you. There are thousands out there who want him, fans and groupies and hangers-on, but right now, his entire focus is on you.

Then his fingers are on your lips, pushing inside and you suck them in as well as you can while he keeps working you mercilessly.

His second hand is back at your clit, calloused fingers rubbing at you just right to drive you out of your mind. You’re moaning loudly, wordlessly begging him to just keep going and finish you off… but of course, just when you’re almost there, he takes his fingers away again and you only just keep yourself from biting down on his hand in frustration (because something tells you that would be a very bad idea).

But then you feel his fingers again at the very bottom of your spine, sliding lower.

Fuck. Oh fuck, that’s… if there’s been an inch of your skin left that hasn’t been covered in sweat before, there isn’t now.

He lays his fingers flat on your butt cheek, pushing it a bit out of the way, and then there’s the pad of thumb, slippery with your own wetness, pressing against your asshole.

And still, he isn’t letting you look away. His gaze meets yours and the only thing you can tell him with your wide-open eyes, with your high-pitched moans, with your tongue curling around his fingers is _Whatever you want. Whatever you need me to be._

He stills inside you as he presses his thumb in, his eyes registering every movement on your face as you adjust to the unfamiliar stretch. It’s intense, the way he’s filling you up, and you moan shamelessly at how you're offering yourself up to him. He is looking back and forth between your face in the mirror, shining with sweat and drooling on his fingers, and your ass. You’re owned, pure and simple, and you _like it_.

When it all gets too much, you push back against him, trying to get him to move again. You’re that close, it feels like all you need it that little bit that he’s denying you.

“Look at you”, he says, voice raspy but still in full control. His thumb strokes over your cheekbone and somehow it’s that which lets your last defences crumble.

“Please”, you slur as best you can around his fingers. He pulls them out of your mouth, pressing them spit-slick against your cheek. His breath is coming rough and fast, but he’s still not moving. You _need_ him to move. “Please fuck me. Please, I’ve waited for this for so long, I can’t-”

Your thighs hit the edge of the table hard as he slams into you. There’s no subtlety or teasing in it now, this is hard and fast and just how you need it. Your hands scrabble over the table, trying to find purchase, until you reach the sides and hold onto the edge with all your strength. His free hand has moved from your face to your hip now, digging into the skin hard enough to bruise as he pulls you back onto him. His thumb is still inside you, adding a maddening, pulsing rhythm and you just can’t stop babbling about how much you want this, begging him to fuck you harder, faster, to use you however he pleases.

Hearing yourself say these things sends a red-hot rush of shame through you, but somehow they only add to the wave that is building up with each of his thrusts. It’s all too much, this overload of sensation, yet you only want more. And he’s obliging, answering every plea, every moan with a rough “fuck yeah” and another sharp thrust.

“Are you gonna come from this”, he asks and brings his hand slapping down on your hip. “Are you gonna come on my cock, my fingers in your arse, bent over this fucking table?”

Yes, you realise as the relentless pounding and that filthy voice in your ears push you over the edge, “Yes, please, oh God.” You’re arching your back, sobbing and keening, as you get overtaken by white hot-pleasure. He feels huge and rock-hard inside you as your muscles tense and clench around him.

“Fuck, you… yes, take it, come on.” He’s egging you on, fucking you right through it, and it’s only when the shaking subsides and you can breathe again that his rhythm starts to falter. He’s not talking now, only making the hottest little choked off noises that send fluttering aftershocks through you.

You’re so sensitive that you can feel him coming inside you, a pulsing, twitching feeling that has you whimpering, both with how good it feels, but also with the knowledge that _you_ are making him come like this. He gives you two more hard thrusts before he stills and then the only sound in the room is his breathing, slowly evening out.

Other sensations start flowing back into your body - the smooth tabletop pressing into your cheek, your fingers cramped around the edges, cool air hitting sweaty skin.

The hollow emptiness as he pulls out and steps away from you.

You feel sore all over as you straighten up and pull your dress back into place. You pick up your slinky underwear from the floor - the last thing you want to do is put it back on, but then you can’t run around without underwear for the rest of the night, so you grit your teeth and do it anyway. They're cold and wet and absolutely disgusting.

And you feel you kinda deserve that.

You don’t look at him. You can hear him walking about, rustling with his clothes, but you don’t look at him. All you want is to get out of here, without looking at anybody ever again and get in your car and drive back to the hotel and curl up in your bed.

A packet of cigarettes is held under your nose. You look up out of sheer confusion and see that a lit one is already dangling from the corner of his mouth. He seems a lot more relaxed now. And he looks so good you want to cry. The one guy in the world you don’t want to think of you as a cheap slut, and you just spent half an hour proving you are exactly that.

You take the cigarette just because it gives you something to do with your hands, then realise you don’t have a lighter. But he’s already holding one up, stepping into your space. Again you get a whiff of that intoxicating scent that has become so familiar to you already. You inhale the smoke, grateful for the bite in your throat.

When you exhale, he’s eyeing you critically. Right. He probably doesn’t want you hanging around here much longer and is trying to get you to take the hint. You quickly pick up your bag and gesture awkwardly towards the door. “I’ll just-”

“You had fun, right?” He cuts you off with an inquiring tilt of his head.

You quickly look away and nod. Given that you’ve been begging him to fuck you harder just minutes ago, it would be ridiculous to deny it. Though you have no idea why he feels the need to rub it in now. Another power play?

“Good”, he says, and brightens up. “That’s good right?”

“I guess,” you say. Yes, it had felt nice (better than nice, you never came so hard in your goddamned life) and if Crystal asked you again, you would agree to it in a heartbeat. Not that that makes you feel any better about yourself.

He doesn’t seem to know what to say. “Just.” He takes a quick drag of his cig and runs a hand through his hair. “There’s nothing wrong with having fun.” His expression turns serious and he points at you with his cigarette. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. It’s bullshit, all of it.”

“Yeah. You’re right, I mean, but…” ...but still I feel like shit, you want to say, but don’t. Because he’s not your damn therapist. You take a drag of your cigarette and try to borrow a bit of his attitude. “No, you’re right. Fuck 'em.”

At that, he flashes you a quick, blinding smile. And when he looks at you like that, even if just for a second? _Seriously_ , fuck them. What do they know?

But your high only lasts a second.

“Wanna meet the others?”

Crystal's words echo through your head. _Wanna meet the band?_ You can feel the blood drain from your face. Jesus Christ, was that just the foreplay? A test to prove yourself worthy? Is he expecting you to entertain the rest of the band, or the crew or-

“For drinks and stuff,” he adds quickly. He must have noticed your expression and you feel yourself blush harder than you did the whole time you’ve been here, and that’s really saying something. God, you’re an idiot. “I think there’s going to be a party of sorts, there usually is.”

“Oh”, you say intelligently. Does he want to… is he inviting you to a party? With him? Like, as a… no, not a date obviously. Is he just trying to be polite? Is that a British thing where you’re supposed to say no and spare everyone the embarrassment?

For once, he doesn't push you and starts making for the door instead. “Listen, I gotta go chew out a certain sound tech whose name I won’t mention. Crystal’s going to be about here somewhere, he’ll sort you out.”

“Right”, you say, trying to keep up with him, trying to quick and clever and, for fuck’s sake, interesting. Anything but a shapely blob in the landscape.

But he’s already pulling the door open. And you’ve got nothing to say. _Dammit._

He turns around in the doorway. “Great! See you there then!” And with one last flash of a smile, he’s off.

_See you there then._

**Author's Note:**

> Come for the porn, stay for Roger’s sex-positive pep talk!
> 
> I have to say, this was a prompt that made me go 'holy shit' when it came up. I have very little idea of how reader-fic works. It's possible I missed the mark completely and if that's the case - sorry! I did my best! 
> 
> So, thank you for the (challenging) prompt! Tell me who you are and I'll gift this fic to you!
> 
> (I didn't intend for this to be posted on Roger's birthday, but it's finished now, so here we go xD)


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